Memories
by FluffyLemonn
Summary: He remembered the first time he saw her. Every beat of her heart flooded his senses: pulsing, captivating. He spoke the word he hadn't said for... four centuries? Five? "Kagura..." (Kagura dedication by FluffyLemonn)


Disclaimer: Oh, go away.

Ok, ok: before y'all start yelling at me, let me tell you something:

Slave's gonna be updated within a week or so, depending on my schedule.

So is Dirty Little Thief.

I am fully aware people have written about Kagura's reincarnation. Let me tell you now that I thought of this before pretty much anyone else knew about chapter 374. So there.

I wrote this because I love Kagura, and she didn't deserve death.

So I'm writing this for my sanity.

Hope you like.

And a warning: this is done from the point of view of a man looking back on his life- try to keep up. I know it's difficult. But it's possible. And... this contains spoilers. Durrr. But is there anyone on the entirety of that DOESN'T know about 374??

-.-

He remembered the first time he saw her. The first time his breath caught in his chest so painfully he felt his usually stoic face pull into a wince. Every beat of her heart flooded his senses loudly: pulsing, captivating, eating at his very soul. And he didn't care. He was so taken by the calming _thump, thump_ of her heart that he didn't even blink. He had merely stood there, gaping wordlessly at the young woman before him. And, just like she always had done before, she quirked one of those beautifully sculpted eyebrows and questioned his sanity in that strange way of hers. Insulting him.

"What? Are you an idiot? Don't tell me they gave me an illiterate professor."

He remembered swallowing hard. Feeling his throat catch laboriously again as he struggled to clear his vocal cords in order to address the impatient young woman before him. He opened his mouth, and spoke the word he had not said for... four centuries? Five? But it seemed so much more... it seemed like forever and a day.

"Kagura."

She was puzzled. Kagura wasn't her name, after all. He learned that. Of course it wasn't her name. When it all came down to it, Kagome wasn't named Kikyou, was she? That would be stupid. He discovered that her name was Ami, and she was vying for a master's degree in the arts. She was a good student, intelligent and strong, if a little stubborn. She studied her papers and did her assignments. She passed her tests.

And on the way, she grew closer to him.

He rubbed his forehead now, trying to remember when it had started. The interest. The meetings of eyes and sometimes even shoulders in the hall when they weren't supposed to. The illegal glances he stole at her when he knew she was looking at him as well and the completely sinful smiles of sad longing she would give him during a study period. It was so wrong, so utterly and wholly against the rules. And yet... it continued to happen. And grow.

Now his fingers moved to his temples, massaging the perfectly smooth and pale skin there. He stroked, trying to relieve his headache, smearing some of the makeup that hide his demonic stripes. He felt his fangs bite into his lip as he remembered that fateful day in the park.

He had been walking, trying to think like he had always done. He pondered the foolish children playing, unaware of the men watching them. Considered the stupid mistakes his students had made on a recent essay. But these thoughts had long since faded from his interest. Now he only thought about _her_.About the way her hair fell in waves, those silky, gliding midnight locks that she so rarely let down. He had smiled slightly when he remembered the way she walked, her curved hips swaying gently to the two-step beat of her heart. About the way her dark black eyes shown an almost garnet color in the sunlight that filtered through his classroom's windows.

His throat caught a bit when he reflected on the way she might taste. About... the way she might move with him. He had childishly wondered: did her body look the same as it had hundreds of years ago? Was that strikingly pale figure hidden underneath those dark, chained clothes?

He had slowly continued his walk, not noticing the way the leaves were falling in bright mismatched patterns of gold and red or how chilly it was quickly becoming. He was caught up in the mesmerizing thoughts of this girl, this _fixation_ that had become the reason he went to perform his duty as a professor at a prodigious college.

Now he stifled a groan as he remembered the way he had so carelessly run into her, wordlessly helping her pick up her books of monologues. She had hissed at him, spitting out curses and calling him clumsy and stupid, striking like the hellcat he knew her to be. Suddenly, she had stopped. Bitten her lip and unknowingly drawn his eyes to her full, pouting mouth. He had swallowed, ignoring the pit in his stomach, listening to her apology and silently agreeing to go get a coffee with her.

They had walked side-by-side, and she chatted aimlessly about an upcoming audition he had asked to take part in. He had noticed that she was cold; her black overcoat was barely enough for spring, let alone the end of fall. He told her that they could go to his apartment, he had freshly made coffee there and it was better (not to mention closer) than the originally intended corner shop. She agreed, but he could smell the distrust and anxiety coating her body. She did not place her confidence in the race of men. It was then that he picked it up; the sickening smell that threatened to push him over the edge into a rage. That reeking smell... it threatened to thrust his demonic side out, something he had not done for nearly five centuries.

The stench of another man. He cursed himself for not smelling it before.

How could he have missed the overwhelming odor of lust?

He nearly gagged now, remembering the surprising anger and possessiveness he had felt towards her and her unknown partner. By the time he led her upstairs to his suave and exclusive apartment, he had made his decision: she must be his. He did not want- no, he would simply not _allow_- another man to ever bed her again. He would not even _entertain_ the idea of another man _touching _her. She was not to be abused again. She was... of his concern now.

He refused to allow her to be forced into such a horrid situation ever again. He knew she had been forced- he could smell the underlying clotted blood of bruises and her fear still mixed in with this man's stink. Could sense it. It was almost tangible, her fear and her acceptance. He did not need to think very hard to come up with an inevitable answer: she was abused. Over a cup of steaming latte and silence, he asked her why she was bruised. She was shocked, of course: her thick makeup, her excellent acting skills... she thought she was invisible. He knew better, he told her: he could sense things most humans could not. She had looked away, those stunning eyes turning away to stare uncomfortably at his hardwood floors. He had caught her chin then forced her to look at him. He told her she was not to go home. She was ordered quite firmly to stay with him until they had put this man in jail and she was healed.

By now, the man was put away. Her bruises faded. And still she lingered.

Now, the man sighed. He now remembered the first night they had shared together, and the way it had come about. She had been sitting complacently in a large, comfortable chair in the master bedroom, quietly studying a monologue he had assigned for class. The Taming of the Shrew, by Shakespeare, if he remembered correctly. He had walked in on her, seen the way she was curled up, and smelled her subtle happiness and humor. He had even felt the warmth radiating off of her barely-dressed body. His hands had quivered, then curled, he recalled, as he noticed angles on her body that had never been seen. Indeed, she had always worn baggy bondage pants and long-sleeve shirts; now, however, she had broken that biased habit for something a little more relaxed. A tight-fitting tank top and boxers were all that she had on; it showed more than it covered. And yet, he wanted more. He wanted to see her entirely without such restraints; for to him, they represented her distrust towards him. He wanted to see her completely unafraid. And so, he approached her.

Immediately, she dropped her book. She didn't question, didn't scream, didn't push him away; instead, when he took her hand, she stood and pressed her body against him. Ami welcomed his lips and his roving hands as though that was their daily schedule.

He shivered in the present, not from the cold of the morning, but from the heat of the memories. He could almost taste her again, could almost feel his tongue taking in the spicy tang that her mouth left burning on his lips. He had slowly guided her to the bed, not insisting, giving her the opportunity to run. But she never did. She never would. He had paused his kisses, stopped touching her fevered body briefly to choke out

"Stop me. Please."

She had smirked, but in a way different than before. This was an expression similar to pity, but not quite. She meant what she said next in response to his plea:

"Fuck you."

And with that, he did not hold back. He gave her everything he could, pushing his body and mind to the limit to accommodate her needs and expectations as well as his own. Even more vividly burned into his mind than her screams of pleasure and pain, however, were the words she murmured in his ear when they collapsed together under a heavy cloud of sensation and ecstasy.

"I... love you."

How he had longed to hear those words. He craved them, just as he needed to know after centuries of waiting and denial that he had been right. He answered the only way he could, the only way he wanted to.

"And I you."

And far off, in the present, amidst all the memories and pain, the man murmured the same words to the young college girl who lay beside him now whenever she wished. She smiled, and in return, said:

"I know, Sesshoumaru. I know."

-.-

I've got this ache in my chest. It's the most beautiful feeling ever.

Gods, I need a boyfriend.

Oh, err... I worked really hard to keep Sesshoumaru in-character. Yes, maybe I strayed a little... perhaps a review from you would, um, help me know? Maybe I could re-write it?

Review? For Kagura? How about Sesshoumaru? How about for _me_?

Oh... and... if I get over 25 reviews for this, 15 asking for it to be a chapter story and not just a one-shot... I will perhaps be motivated to continue. If it gets as many as 'Teaching the Pervert How', well, I'll be damned.

-FL

Dedicated to Kagura (141-374), though a drawing she may be. It matters not. She inspires.


End file.
